In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,123
me I will not. Corfe is but a temporary accommodation while I … while I adjust to my condition,” she finished in a whisper.
“You would still believe him? After all he has done to you … the degradation he has forced upon you?”
“He did it to ensure I could never be a threat to his crown. In that he has succeeded, for I could never be queen now, never”—the words caught in her throat and took all of her strength to sob free—“be looked upon with anything but pity and derision.”
“Lord FitzRandwulf will only look upon you with love,” Marienne insisted. “Just as I do.”
“No!” Eleanor said fiercely. “No, he must never look upon me at all! He must be persuaded to go away from here and leave me to my own fate. He must be convinced this is what I want.”
“But … how, my lady? He will not believe the word of a gaoler, regardless of what proof Brevant gives him. He will not believe this is what you have said or what you want unless he hears it from your own lips.”
“You must find a way. You must convince him I am better left forgotten, for I could not bear to even imagine the look on his face if he should see me like this.”
Eleanor bowed her head and turned her body into the nave. She clasped her hands around her beads and pressed them to her lips, praying fervently between soft, muffled sobs. Watching her, Marienne thought her heart would surely break under this new burden of sorrow.
It was not fair. It simply was not fair that someone so proud, so lovely, so virtuous should have to spend the rest of her days with her head bent in shame.
Hoping to find a measure of the courage her princess possessed, Marienne took to her knees alongside her and appealed to the Blessed Virgin for guidance. She prayed all day as she went about her chores and later that evening, when she again bumped into Captain Brevant and felt for the warmth of his large hand, she whispered her message, knowing full well it would take more than just a humble miracle to turn Eduard FitzRandwulf away from Corfe Castle.
“What do you mean she wants nothing more to do with me?” Eduard demanded, his anger rising swift and sharp to the surface.
“I am not the one to know what she means,” Brevant snarled by way of an answer. “I only know she gave me this”— he shoved something round and heavy into Eduard’s hand and withdrew his own as if the object had been glowing red hot and he was glad to be rid of it—“and sent a plea that you leave her to the fate God has chosen for her. Those were her words according to the Little One, and God curse my tongue for agreeing to carry them at all. Take my advice and do as she asks. The king is expected to sail from Cherbourg before the week’s end. He will be stopping here before he makes for Portsmouth and you would be smart to have moved your ugly faces a hundred miles from here by then.”
Eduard curled his fist around the ring Brevant had given him. He had no need to look at it, for he knew it was his own, wrought of gold and crested with the La Seyne Sur Mer device of a snarling wolf. News of the king’s imminent arrival came as a surprise. If it was true—and he had no reason to believe it was not—they had no more time to waste weighing the risks. They would have to take a few.
“I want you to inform your governor we are here.”
“Eh? Inform him you are here?” Brevant was stunned. “Are you mad?”
“We are all a little mad, my friend, some more than others is all. You have told us it is impossible to get inside the castle walls by stealth or force. It remains, therefore, the only other way is by invitation.”
“Invitation? You expect him to invite you into the castle as his guests?”
“I would expect him, as the king’s representative, to extend the offer of hospitable lodgings to Lady Ariel de Clare and her brother, Lord Henry de Clare, niece and nephew to William of Pembroke, Earl Marshal of England.”
The giant’s jaw sagged open and his eyes bulged. “You want me to carry him a tale like that?”
“He must already know there are strangers in the village; it can only